


the war won

by notvega



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: 1740-1748 (main plot), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, M/M, Mevolent's War, Multi, Original characters appear and play relatively significant roles, Relationships will take a ton of time to get anywhere, Slow Burn, Trauma, Warzone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-04 17:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15846345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notvega/pseuds/notvega
Summary: Mevolent's War and the Jacobite Risings set the scene; meanwhile Saracen Rue just can't stop getting himself in trouble. The Dead Men are making a name for themselves, the Necromancers remain a slippery bunch, Corrival Deuce keeps getting presented with sadistic choices. And of course, there had to be pirates.





	1. Prologue

Saracen Rue detested England. 

To be entirely fair, he didn’t detest it when riding through the countryside, or being deservedly thrown out of London taverns, or being nursed back to health by the tavern owners’ wives, but you could have that anywhere. It was only England where sooner or later, he always found himself running for his life from the Diablerie.

To be even fairer, he had a sample size of two, but that didn’t matter as he raced across what during the day (and in better weather) was probably a very pittoresque meadow, all soft and full of wildflowers. Depressingly vacant of any cover that would allow him to examine the head wound from which blood was dripping onto his face and mixing with the dirt and the rain streaking across it. He couldn’t hear them anymore, but tricks like that didn’t work on him. He was Saracen Rue and he knew they were still within shooting distance, waiting for him to stop being a moving target and start being a sitting duck.

Something, probably a rabbit hole, caught his foot and he cursed as he stumbled, barely registering the searing pain in his ankle before scrambling back up and running on. His hands, too, were bleeding. He felt the sharp pain of dirt and tiny rocks digging into the wounds.

Sometimes, he wanted to curse his magical discipline. Able to tell him that a marriage proposal had taken place here today, but not where to turn in order to escape the lunatics nipping at his heels. Nor, as it turned out, to inform him that he was running straight for a cliff edge, he realised with a start and stood, barely able to keep his momentum from carrying him over the edge. He considered his options. 

“Ah, hell.” 

He dived.

 

***

 

When he woke up, the first realisation that hit him was salt water. It was everywhere, on his face, in his clothes, on every one of his wounds. It stung like hell. 

“Stay still,” said a gruff voice. “You’re in chains.”

What a lovely candidate for his second realisation. 

He blinked the water out of his eyes. It was still dark, but the first streaks of daylight were appearing on the horizon. He was on a boat, hands and feet in chains as the man had said. His saviour was tall and broad-shouldered, with messy dark hair. 

“Who are you?” The sentence came out coarse and barely intelligible. His throat hurt like hell.

“Nankarrek.” The man was rowing stoically, his arms straining with every push, breath remaining measured as though he was just taking a stroll. “Don’t speak. There’s a surgeon where I’m taking you, or near as, anyway.”

He blacked out again.

 

***

 

“... drag him out of the ocean, ‘karrek?”

“Same cliff they chased me down.” That was Nankarrek again. Sounding substantially less annoyed. “I’d say they use it as hunting grounds, and things being as they were, I didn’t mind the opportunity to spoil their plans. Ben’s still there to observe if they follow.”

The salt water was mostly gone and the pain from his wounds was fainter as though hidden behind a thick fog. So was everything, come to think of it. Wherever he was had a truly wasteful amount of candles lit and the smell was driving him half insane. In a moment of truly quick thinking, he managed to keep his eyes shut. Best to find out something about his captors while they didn’t know he was listening it.

“Is he coming to?” said the other voice, which, if pushed, he would have guessed was female. Seemed he was still too injured to make use of his gift.

A third voice entered the conversation, male, but gentler than Nankarrek’s. “Yes, miss. Though I’ll never understand why you’re having me use these on a straggler like ‘im.”

“If we’re lucky, he knows something about the rogues that chased ‘karrek. If not, we’ll see if we can make something useful of him regardless. The weapons look interesting enough by themselves.”

“Could’ve taken those off a dead man, miss,” the man whose gentle voice was evidently deceptive mumbled under his breath. He was not dignified with a response. 

“Leave the chains on him. If we’re correct, I don’t want him to start using whatever gifts he has against us.”

“Have you ever actually checked whether those chains hold, miss?”

Silence from the woman. Interesting.

“Alright, Argus, take the night off,” sighed Nankarrek. “I’ll keep watch and see how dangerous he is, chained or not.”

Steps shuffled across the room and a door was shut, from the outside. From the sounds, he would have guessed at a stone floor, moderately uneven. The air was warm, uncomfortably so, probably due to the candles. 

“You can open your eyes, stranger.”

Ah. His breath must have given him away. He opened his eyes cautiously. The room, though a little blurry, seemed like a hospice. A couple of simple beds beside his, all unoccupied. His hands and feet remained chained, linked to the bed in an odd contraption. 

His vision became clearer. Nankarrek sat in a chair at the foot of the bed. Cross-legged, with a pince nez gingerly held before his shockingly blue eyes, he appeared significantly less like the gruff, strong-and-silent type of warrior he had seemed on the boat. Given he was examining Saracen’s rifle with an expression of mild interest, Saracen wasn’t sure if that made him less intimidating. 

“Why does your surgeon want me dead?”

Nankarrek looked up, dropping the pince nez. It hung on a simple chain attached to his collar. A small smile played around his lips, doing absolutely nothing to make his angular features less forbidding. 

“Argus doesn’t want you dead. He’s just fussed about the effort it’s taking to keep you alive.”

“Reassuring position for a healer,” he responded in a poor imitation of his ordinary wit.

The other man shrugged. “Old habits die hard, stranger. I wouldn’t worry myself about it so long as the lass wants you to live.”

“Why does she?”

“You heard her, didn’t you? She wants to know about the folk at the coast.”

“Why?”

“Too close to the island,” Nankarrek answered, his attention back on the rifle. “Tell me, what do the symbols do?”

“Little of use in that particular encounter,” he admitted unhappily, remembering the embarrassing realisation he had run out of powder. The gun was bloody spectacular if you got a shot off, but if that was impossible, it was nothing but a particularly inept club.

“I remember them being a nasty bunch.” The man’s deep voice was soft, the sentence open-ended, almost like a question. 

If his gift were working, Saracen could have checked their intentions, told them what he knew if he was certain it was safe. As things stood, much as he felt he probably could trust Nankarrek, knowledge of the Diablerie seemed to be his only bargaining chip.

“How did you save me by the way?” he countered with a question (proper one) of his own. 

“Pulled you out of the water, lad. Nothing complicated about it.” Still unnaturally calm, the other man’s gaze was fixed on the weapon in his hands.

“I know that. But I keep thinking about it, and there was no boat anywhere near where I jumped. And yet, had I been in the water longer than a few moments, I would have drowned.”

“Damn near did.” Nankarrek put the gun down. “I saw you from afar, and got there fast. How is a story for when you tell us what we want to know.”


	2. The Admiral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised how messy and difficult Saracen's character is to write without having him interact with the other Dead Men, sooo. That was horrifying. Slightly, related, like almost everyone, I do have my own in-universe take on how his power works, which will come up later on.

“Alright, lad,” said the surgeon, his birdlike eyes trained on Saracen’s with an unsettling sort of focus. The man was hard to read, but Saracen was pleased enough to see him carrying a key which looked just like the sort that might unlock his chains. “The Admiral has returned and he has asked me to bring you up to meet him. You’ll be unchained and permitted to wash yourself before.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll steal your ointments and run off?” he joked before he could stop himself. Argus was extremely capable as a surgeon from what he could tell, but the man seemed to harbour an intense dislike for him all the same. Incredible, yet true.

The man’s eyes did not give any sign of appreciating the humour. “I’m not, because I am armed while you are not, and in any case, you are not capable of much in your current state.” 

He was probably right about that. Nankarrek had let him walk a little some days ago and he had almost toppled over after nothing more than a couple of steps. It was a mystery all by itself how he would be making his way up to meet whoever this Admiral fellow was. Besides, the old doctor looked gnarly and strong enough to do some damage even with just his fists. And his glare.

Slowly and with clear reluctance, the man unlocked the chains around his wrists and ankles. He took in deep breaths upon feeling magic tingling back to him. Being bound was nothing if not horribly uncomfortable. Carefully, he moved to sit and placed his feet on the cold stone floor, hoping very sincerely he wouldn’t fall over in front of Argus of all people. He managed the first few cautious steps to the washing bowl on a drawer next to the door, and gingerly removed his shirt, careful not to touch the bandages on the wound on his head. That one stung enough all by itself. With the rag next to the bowl, he wiped away the dust and sweat of the previous days, leaning heavily on the drawer. Someone had washed off the initial grime from his dive while he was still slipping in and out of consciousness, but since then, they’d been rather insistent about keeping him chained up as much as they possibly could.

Argus handed him another rag with an outstretched arm. Saracen noticed idly that he had unusually good posture for such an old man, weight perfectly balanced and always ready to pounce. Weak as Saracen was, it was plenty intimidating. He shrugged and used the rag to dry himself. “Mistress Caris sent down a fresh shirt,” the man said in that odd, half respectful, half patronising tone he always used when talking to or about the woman Saracen had never properly met, and passed him the item. It was clean and neatly folded and felt like a bit of luxury. The cut was loose enough to fit comfortably over his head and the fabric felt like good quality. He pulled it on and tucked it in, then reached for his boots, once more becoming aware of just how limited his movements had become as he bent down. Slipping them on, he made a mental note to find a better shoemaker the moment he got back to camp. 

Aware of the man’s eyes following his every movement, he motioned toward the door. “So. Let’s meet the man.” 

Argus moved, catlike, toward the door and opened it, waiting for Saracen to pass through. He managed, slowly and carefully. The outside was extraordinarily uninteresting. A nondescript corridor, rock walls, rock floor, rock ceiling. Torches placed regularly every couple of paces. Just his luck, to find himself stranded inside a rock, he thought to himself and, depressing as that realityhad the potential of being, he was pleased to feel the pleasant little sensation that yes, he was indeed inside a rock. Magic. On his left, he could make out a staircase at the end of the corridor, and attached to it an odd wooden contraption that looked suspiciously like - dare he say - a chair? Half leaning on the wall, he was relieved to see Argus pointing left. A chair sounded like an excellent idea. Achingly slowly, they made their way to it. 

“Sit.” 

Never had he been quite so glad to follow an order, although its purpose remained unclear until Argus pulled a lever next to him and the chair began to move, slightly shaky but ultimately upward, following the stairs. Every once in a while, Saracen Rue adored magic. Argus walked next to the chair slowly, wooden staff in hand. When they reached the top, the seat stilled and Saracen reluctantly pulled himself up, one hand on the wall to keep him steady. They walked an additional dozen paces until they reached a doorway. Wooden, elaborately carved, and about thrice his height, the door was imposing and, in a way, quite beautiful. 

It swung open with a slight creak on the hinges to reveal an equally imposing hall. Big enough to fit a perfectly reasonable house, its walls, too, were rock. Tall windows, some stained-glass, some plain crystal, let in a flood of daylight. Tables were placed throughout, but they were empty except for the large table at the head of the room opposite the doorway, positioned at a right angle to the others and on a platform. There sat three people. Nankarrek was to the right of an equally tall and broad-shouldered man who looked about twenty years his senior (and likely a good prediction of what Nankarrek himself might look like at that age), grey beard streaked with white. That had to be the Admiral, of course, fittingly clad in a faded blue coat and clearly the leader of the three. On the man’s left was a younger woman in green. The one Nankarrek had been talking about. The one who’d wanted him kept alive. 

Awkwardly, painfully slowly, he and Argus made their way through the hall under the scrutiny of the three at the table. There was a chair there for him, at the foot of the steps. He dropped onto it when they arrived, too unsure of his legs to care much for his manners. 

“Thank you, Argus,” the woman said with a nod. “We’ll have him back with you when we’re done.”

Dismissed, Argus nodded to the three, but, Saracen saw from the corner of his eyes, did not bow, and left. The man in the middle seemed to be evaluating Saracen closely, finally speaking in a beautiful baritone. 

“You’re the one Nankarrek pulled from the sea then.” It wasn’t a question, so he stayed silent. “Tell me, stranger, what is your name?”

“Saracen Rue,” he answered without any of his usual flourishes, finding it hard to read the man opposite him.

“I expect Argus will have told you who I am.”

“He mentioned he’d be taking me to the Admiral. I’ll assume that you are he.”

A single nod. “What brought you to the cliff you jumped from?”

“I was running from some who were chasing me.”

“And you’d rather drown than be captured by them?” It was hard to tell, but Saracen thought he heard a bit of humour in that.

“If you knew them, you would prefer the water, too, Admiral. Even more than a man of your calling generally would favour the seas.”

“He’s not wrong,” said Nankarrek darkly. “They got young Barry when we patrolled the cliff two weeks gone. It wasn’t pretty.”

“A disturbing development, to be sure,” the Admiral agreed, turning left. “I expect that’s why you had Mr Rue’s injuries treated?”

“That, and out of personal interest in his rifle. It has symbols on it I have never seen before.” He bet it did. Magical as he suspected these folk were, he was confident they were at best recluses, and possibly unaware of magical society.

“We’ll see if our guest feels like indulging you.” The Admiral's tone softened by a fraction at that. “Well, Mr Rue, what can you tell us about the rogues at the coast?”

He considered it. His gift was unhelpfully spotty in situations like this. He shrugged. Might as well risk it and garner some goodwill in the process. “They’re known as the Diablerie. Four members, led by a truly terrifying woman who goes by China Sorrows. They were laying in wait for me to be separated from my comrades and chased their way.” 

Nankarrek raised an eyebrow. “Why would they be doing that? What quarrel do you have with them?”

“As I imagine you saw, one needn’t have quarrel with them to end up their quarry.” He had to say, he was rather pleased with that little joke. The woman’s lips twitched, but the others ignored it. “They’re part of a group I have dedicated a good deal of my efforts toward thwarting.”

He realised he was being vague, but given how little he knew about what they already had learnt, it was hard to explain. 

“They have gifts,” Nankarrek added, speaking to the Admiral more than Saracen. “Couldn’t identify it properly, but they’re not regular folk.”

Saracen nodded. “They’re magical alright. I don’t know as much about them as I’d like, but I can tell you a bit.” He took a deep breath, decided to go all in. “To that end, it might be helpful to understand your relationship to all this.” 

“We have little enough, so you may assume us to have none for now,” the Admiral instructed. Probably hoping to catch him in a lie. 

“Societies of sorcerers exist across the globe. Gifted folk, as I understand you call them. We have for centuries.” Millenia, probably. But he didn’t know too much about that. “There are some among us who worship what they think are ancient gods and hope to create a world to their liking. Others, such as myself, wish to avoid that as they are, frankly, utterly insane.” His hosts stayed silent, encouraging him to continue. “For the past century, there’s been skirmishes and they’ve since become a war.” Not that the continentals were going to acknowledge it had become a war the day Mevolent named Serpine his first general. “My companions and I were attempting to retrieve some information when we were attacked and separated.”

“Very well. Nankarrek, have they ventured beyond the coast at all?” 

“Not as far as we can see. We’ve been keeping watch on them in shifts.”

“Have they noticed?”

“No,” said Saracen and all their eyes turned to him. He really needed to get his act together. Normally, this only happened to him in the early morning or after too much drink. 

“How would you know?”

He sighed. “It’s my gift. It’s what I can do with magic.” Yeah, that sounded very credible. Why couldn’t he think before blurting out facts for once?

The Admiral seemed to take it in stride, however. “I hope for the sake of our men that your gift served you well in this instance, Mr Rue. What do they want at the coast, do you think?”

“I’d expect they’re waiting to see if I return. They don’t know about your island, otherwise they’d have paid a visit by now.” 

“Give the men another two days of watches, then get them back here,” the Admiral instructed and Nankarrek responded with a curt nod. The old man turned back to look at Saracen. “I think we have learnt all we will on this day, and you look like you’ll faint if we keep you longer. You will remain as our guest from now until you are well enough to travel if you so wish.”

The man wasn’t wrong, Saracen felt himself struggling to remain alert. What he couldn’t figure out was why they were now suddenly fine treating him as a recuperating guest rather than a reluctantly treated prisoner. Oh well, as long as it got him out of those chains. 

“Caris, take the man back to Argus, and have a word with him about his attitude.” His eyes twinkled and met Saracen’s, wrinkled face breaking into a smile. “His bedside manner always terrified me.”

***

There were a couple of ways the woman - Caris - was nicer to walk with than Argus. The lack of perpetual glaring was probably one of them, as was the fact that after observing him walk for a couple of paces she offered him her shoulder to lean on. It would have been comical if he’d been taller (less exhausted, he would certainly have chuckled at the mental image of Anton in his place), but being as she was only a few inches shorter than he, it worked surprisingly well. Half walking, half being carried to the chair, he remained uncharacteristically silent until they reached it. She set him down gently and he breathed a sigh of relief. This time, he saw the lever before she pulled it and thus was less shocked when he began to move down the stairs. 

“This,” he opened, smiling now his legs were no longer screaming at him, “is a marvellous construction. How did you come by it?”

“I built it,” she responded matter-of-factly, but he saw her posture change to betray the littlest bit of pride. 

When they made it to the infirmary, he was relieved to see Argus absent and the shackles on his bed removed. She helped him to the bed and stood next to it, hands clasped in front of her waist. 

“I’m terribly sorry for the way we’ve been keeping you, Mr Rue,” she said, and he believed her. “You’re the first magical guest we’ve had here in a long time.”

Saracen shrugged as well as he was able and leaned against the headboard. “Your man Nankarrek saved my life, you had your surgeon treat my injuries. I won’t complain.”

“Is there anything we can do for you while you get better?”

 

“I’ll take a surgeon with less murderous ambitions,” he said, eyes twinkling. “But aside from that, I’d like to know a little more about my hosts, if you can spare the time, Mistress Caris.” Smiling his most charming smile, he observed her consider it and then relent, a tiny blush sneaking onto her cheeks. She sat delicately in the chair by his bed that Nankarrek sometimes occupied when he came by for his visits.

“I have some moments, I suppose. What would you like to know?”

“Who is the Admiral?” he offered immediately, then clarified, questions flowing out of his mouth relentlessly. “Is he really an admiral? What is his relation to magical folk? Where is this island and how is it undiscovered?”

“That’s a lot of questions,” she admonished gently and leaned back. “I’ll start with the last one. The island is in the Celtic sea, not far from the Cornish coast. It’s really a massive rock that - well, we don’t entirely know what it does, but even mined it will hide people and materials in its environment. The bigger the piece, the larger the space that is hidden. Perhaps you know of things like that?”

He considered it, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think I’ve heard of it, but others among our army may have. I’ll ask them, when I return. There’s a scholar among us, a natural philosopher, who would probably love to study it.”

“I would so like to learn more about this world of yours,” she mused, grey eyes shining with an almost childlike curiosity before turning serious again. “But first, to answer your questions. My father was an admiral in the royal navy, before some unfortunate developments forced him to part with the Crown. He has since made his fortune at sea.” 

Not the most creative euphemism for piracy, but it was what he had suspected in any case. 

“If he’s your father, is Nankarrek - “ he trailed off, the answer having already presented itself to his great surprise. “He is not the Admiral’s son?”

At that, she chuckled. “No, though many believe it and we don’t often contradict them. There is some small likelihood that he is related to us, but ‘karrek is here on his virtue and that alone.”

“His virtue in piracy?”

“Aye, and his virtue in saving fools who try to drown themselves by diving from cliffs without being able to swim.”

“I still wonder how he did that. He said he would tell me when I told you about the Diablerie.” 

“And I’m sure he will,” Caris responded with an amused shake of her head. “I’ll send some writing things down for you to note down anything you can think of with regard to them, I think. We need any kind of detail you might think of.”

That was fair enough, although he doubted he would be very helpful. “I will try. Now, I believe one question remains open.”

“Yes, our connection to your world.” She tilted her head, eyes focused on something invisible outside the window. Clouds had covered the sun once more and the light was fading fast. “My father discovered his gifts beyond seamanship and command when he abandoned the Crown and later told me of them when my mother died and I joined his travels. We assumed others existed, found some in all corners of the world. Many joined our crews over the years, although not all of our men are gifted. It is a better life, I reckon, to be on a ship with those like yourself, than in a world with people who could never understand.” She shook her head once as if to shake off a daze. “Apologies, Mr Rue, I am turning sentimental. It is a project close to my heart.”

 

“Ah now, I would never disapprove of a little sentimentality,” he replied, meeting her eyes and attempting a welcoming gesture with his hands that was ever so slightly undercut by his wincing in main when he inadvertently pulled at the bandage across his chest. “Why a project close to your heart?” And before she had the opportunity to answer, he realised. “Because you, too, are magical, aren’t you?”

A soft, almost nostalgic smile appeared on her face. “Maybe I am, Mr Rue. But I think for now, you will have enough to contemplate, and I have to see to the storage and inventory of three ships’ loads arrived last night, so please excuse me.”

He nodded and followed her with his eyes as she got up, all swishing skirts and efficiency, with none of her earlier idleness. This was an interesting spot to have found himself in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very much looking for feedback on both characterisation and clarity, which I will 100% use to rewrite and adjust. Thanks for sticking around so far!


	3. The Journey

***

Some weeks later (mid-April 1741)

***

“I’m very glad you’re feeling better, Mr Rue,” the Admiral said warmly, spearing a piece of fruit with a fork. Breakfast here was surreal, partly because it changed every day. Saracen had a sneaking suspicion they were simply showing off for him, but no one had confirmed it so far and his gift proved uncooperative in puzzling it out. “I expect you’ll want to reunite with your comrades as soon as possible.”

Feeling all their eyes on him, Saracen nodded, somehow managing to make the gesture dramatic. “Much as I hate to deprive the island of my company, they’re probably lost without me.”

“You are their navigator?” asked Nankarrek, tone so deadpan Saracen couldn’t tell if he was being serious. 

“In a sense,” he responded, then cleared his throat and moved on to another topic. “Admiral, on the point of my return. I was wondering if I could impose on you for a boat.”

“You propose to travel by boat around half Ireland to get to Clare.” Now, Nankarrek was definitely making fun of him.

“He won’t have to,” the Admiral interjected. “Caris will accompany him to learn about this group he talks about. She’ll manage their travels.”

“I should go with her,” Nankarrek spoke up immediately, food forgotten. “We don’t know what they’ll encounter.”

“I’ll be fine, ‘karrek,” Caris reassured him and took a sip of her tea. “We’ll take a sphere, and I won’t repeat my errors from St Petersburg. I’ve learnt from my mistakes.”

Saracen didn’t ask. He’d learnt to distinguish between times when there was a point and those when asking got him nothing but an evasive non-answer. These people badly needed contact with folk who weren’t in on their shared history. He helped himself to an additional spoon of porridge. It was heavenly, soft and creamy and sweetened with just enough honey to allow him to taste all the other spices they must have put in it. 

“In that case, I will have Barry’s daughter pack your things.” The Admiral looked thoughtful for a moment. “Take a chest of the mined rock as well. See if we can trade for it.”

“Of course,” Caris agreed, finishing her cup and rising from her seat. “I’ll get the boat ready.” She nodded to all of them and left the room. 

“When you’re done,” Nankarrek said, face darker and more closed-off than usual, “I’ll take you to get some proper clothing. It’ll be a rough journey.” Food remained on his earthenware plate, ignored as he - there was no other word for it - brooded. 

The Admiral noticed the man’s mood, but said nothing about it as he, too, finished up his breakfast and left the room. Saracen ate quickly, for although he savoured the food, there was something eerie about Nankarrek’s sudden change of mood. He didn’t know why, guessing at some combination of concern, disapproval, and - envy? When he was finished with his bowl, the other man stood, leaning against the door as he waited impatiently for Saracen to follow. He did, still revelling in being able to move without feeling this injury or that one. 

“What are you worried about?” he asked carefully as they passed through more of the same corridors that wound through the entire island. He didn’t think he’d been here before, but frankly from the look of things he couldn’t be sure. Maybe it was a defense tactic. Boring invading forces to death.

“Caris likes new things more than is good for her. Or anyone.” His voice was gruff and he wasn’t meeting Saracen’s eyes. 

“She’ll be fine in the camp,” Saracen offered, not entirely sure where Nankarrek was going with this. 

“Of course,” was the only response he got before Nankarrek stopped unexpectedly and opened a door that, by virtue of being made of rock, blended near perfectly into the wall.

Inside the room, Rue found a truly astonishing amount of clothes. Almost none were new, he saw at second glance, but they were clean and mended where torn. Breeches, shirts, trousers, jerkins, waistcoats, dresses and robes, beggar and tradesman and aristocrat, and from what he could tell, from all over the world. Ghastly would marvel at it, to be sure. Nankarrek pointed at a small wooden chest, which stood open on the floor. 

 

“Pick what you want. Be quick about it, I’d like you to be on your way by noon.”

Tempted as he was to follow his more extravagant tastes, Saracen chose some simple and sensible things, indulging himself only with an extravagant purple cravat and a pair of leather boots. Nankarrek handed him a large overcoat with a hood, otherwise standing back to look grumpily at nothing in particular, looming in the door like a bad omen. Saracen hadn’t known the man had it in him to sulk. 

“Done?”

“Except for my rifle, yes.” It had been gone from the infirmary after his initial longer conversation and he found himself missing it. Not to mention it would be horrendously embarrassing to arrive back without it. 

“Already on the boat,” Nankarrek responded and turned on his heel, leaving Saracen to hastily close the chest and make his best attempt at carrying it without looking ridiculous. What he wouldn’t give to be an Elemental in situations like this. Much more dignified to have a box floating gently behind you than to struggle with getting a secure grip on it.

“Take good care of her, is all I ask.” Nankarrek’s voice was softer now, but he continued to refuse to meet Saracen’s eyes. “Caris is capable enough, but she hasn’t left the castle in decades. She might be rusty.”

Saracen nodded. He could empathise with the other man’s concern and he knew it to be genuine. “We won’t take risks. She’ll be back with you before you know it.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Saracen Rue.”

***

The coast line was in a tunnel. Of course it was. Certainly too small for proper ships, it held plenty of space for the odd contraption they would be travelling in. Caris followed his confused glance.

“Catboat. Slightly adapted for our purposes.” She was wrapped in a heavy overcoat not dissimilar to his own, with a scarf wrapped multiple times around her neck, half covering her face. “Take a seat, and hold on.”

He followed the instruction and sat on the narrow bench behind the single mast holding up the sail. There were metal rings attached to the side of the boat and he grasped one of them firmly, seeing Caris squeeze Nankarrek’s hand quickly and whisper something inaudible before stepping onto the boat and sitting down next to him. She pulled on leather gloves, sat up very straight, and with a jerky motion, the boat jumped ahead and landed in the deeper water ahead, water splashing up. 

“Rusty, hmm?” he teased, smirking in spite of his better judgement.

“I suppose you had better hope I’m not, Mr Rue,” she responded with what he suspected was a chuckle behind her scarf. 

The boat started moving more steadily toward the exit of the cave and Saracen settled in. “So this is your gift then?” he inquired conversationally. 

“In a sense. It was my father’s first and he taught me.” Her gaze was firmly ahead, squinting slightly as they made the transition from torch to sunlight. “It does have the advantage you won’t have to row.”

“That’s very comforting, since I have never rowed a boat in my long life, though I am sure I would cut a striking figure doing it.”

“Who am I to doubt that?” she asked, definitely laughing this time. She was warming to him, he was quite sure. Of course she was. People always did.

***

“This is heaven,” Caris shouted out gleefully as the boat was swept forward and up by another wave, crashing back into the sea with a splash that would have been deafening but for the roaring winds all around them. 

Saracen stared at her in disbelief as he attempted to gather his balance on the bench. His hands gripped the ring so tightly the icy metal dug into his now-raw skin and he was fairly sure being tossed around as much as he had had rebroken several bones. His companion, on the other hand, seemed to invariably predict every movement of the boat and adjust to it without giving it a second thought. While she, too, was drenched, she sat comfortably without even holding on to the ring on her side. It was utterly unfair.

She turned to look at him and took a tiny bit of pity, briefly squeezing his shoulder. “We are almost there, Mr Rue. You’ll see your companions soon.” 

He clung to that prospect as more waves tossed them about, rattling the boxes chained to the boat and making him feel faintly sick. After what felt like an eternity, the storm calmed down at least to the point that he wasn’t intermittently throwing up over the edge anymore. 

“See the shore over there?” Caris pointed out, excited like an adolescent on their first longer journey. His gaze followed her motion cautiously, having found that looking at the ocean didn’t really help his nausea. He did see land, surprisingly close. The storm must have obscured it before. The rain was slowly letting up and he followed her example in removing his hood. They were moving more slowly now, gently approaching the beach. With the wind softly brushing through his hair rather than tearing at it, and at this pace, the whole travel-by-boat thing was a good deal more enjoyable. Still, he couldn’t deny he was thrilled to see the coast. It was rather desolate, but it was Ireland and familiar and he was so close to seeing the others again. 

The boat shook suddenly, so much Saracen was terrified all over again of being thrown into the grey sea. Caris’ laugh didn’t help matters, because in the last hours he had learnt not to trust her judgement in these affairs. It would be just like her to laugh at some maritime monstrosity attacking their boat. 

“I think you’ve broken him,” said the deep voice of Nankarrek and Saracen blinked the water out of his eyes to observe the man sitting casually on their travel chests as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “I hope this answers your question, Mr Rue.” His earlier dark mood seemingly forgotten in his amusement at the present situation, he offered Saracen a small, rolled up leaf. “For the sickness. Should have given it to you earlier, but we’d run out.”

Eying it suspiciously, Saracen decided it couldn’t really be worse than the existing feeling in his stomach, took the leaf and started chewing. It didn’t work as fast as Lament’s pain relievers, but he felt himself feeling fractionally less nauseous, though whether that was the leaf or the calmed-down sea, he couldn’t say. “So you’re a teleporter,” he noted. It did explain things. “Are you joining us to the camp?”

“Aye, or near as your folk will allow.”

“The camp is close to this beach,” Saracen mused. “I don’t think anyone would mind you accompanying us to the outer fence now you’re here. Although if we want to be welcomed, we may want to abandon the sphere at this point.”

“Alright,” Caris said quietly, suddenly rather somber as she reached into the depths of her pockets and twisted the cloaking sphere once, counter-clockwise.

If the guards were good, and he sincerely hoped they were, they would right about now be alerting Deuce and Guild to their presence. They waited. Nankarrek looked anxious, glance darting all around and one hand on his rifle. Probably didn’t like being a visible sitting duck.

Although it was convenient for their little party now, the camp was not on the coast for any strategic consideration but necessity. They had been pushed westward relentlessly by attacks on villages surrounding previous locations as well as the army supply lines. In order to avoid being found, they had picked this spot - isolated from mortals and so utterly inconvenient to get to - and for now, it had worked out. Not that Saracen had high hopes it would hold out for long. Traitors were bound to smuggle their way into their ranks sooner or later and then all that safety would be gone.

They were floating in the shallow water for almost an hour before two figures appeared on the beach. Both clad in black, Saracen almost jumped out of his seat when he recognised Ghastly and Dexter walking toward them. As they approached, he noticed other details. Ghastly’s exasperated concern, the grim set of Dexter’s jaw. He hadn’t expected them to be happy with his disappearing for weeks, but they looked positively bad-tempered. Caris guided the boat toward the beach steadily. Nankarrek jumped out when the water was knee-deep and pulled them onto dry ground, then held out his hand first to Caris, then Saracen. 

“Know them?” he asked quietly. Saracen nodded.

“Made it back, Rue?” Dexter called out, but the humour in his voice was shallow over a darker edge. 

The two of them walked up to the boat in perfect unison and from closer by, it was evident they weren’t just in a dark mood, they were also exhausted, with bruised shadows under their eyes and ashen faces.

“Identify yourselves,” Ghastly ordered tersely in his native Gaelic, his entire manner impatient and irritable.

Saracen spoke for them, hoping to keep this short so they could get back to the base and discuss what was going on. 

“They saved me from drowning off the Cornish coast. Sorcerers, after a fashion.” He spoke quickly and quietly. “They have some things to offer, and I’ll vouch for their integrity. Whatever else they may be, they’re not Mevolent’s creatures.”

“You know that?” Dexter asked, sizing the two newcomers up skeptically.

He nodded and that was that. They began the trek up to the camp.

***

Baron Vengous wasn’t the sort to devise creative methods of torture. Nefarian dabbled in it, too much and too gleefully for his taste, but the Baron had found that Serpine still got about the same amount of information out of his victims as he himself did with the traditional methods. 

Perhaps though, for this one, he’d get Nefarian to have a look. This particular sort of innate magic presented its challenges after all, and it would be such a waste not to make the most of this prisoner. The least known Dead Man. The Baron allowed the ghost of a smile onto his grim face. Mr Hopeless was going to reveal his secrets one way or another. Besides, he’d never turn down the chance to see Nefarian Serpine squeal in fear. He was only a man after all, and he doubted there was a man who could resist that particular temptation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot-proper is getting going, friends!


	4. The Puzzle

It was very much not what Saracen had envisioned. As he lay on his too-narrow cot, staring up blankly at the colourless fabric of the tent in the light of a single candle, idly twirling a dagger between his fingers, he allowed that reality to sink in. Hopeless, captured. Their last mission a trap. The informant they’d been sent to get out a traitor. Hopeless, possibly dead. Possibly tortured. He shouldn’t have gotten his expectations up. You were supposed to die. Shouldn’t have expected his bout of heroics to allow the others to get away. There were only so many times the distraction by presenting an easy target gambit could work. If you’d taken the hit, Hopeless would be safe.

He blinked his thoughts away angrily. No time for that. A ruffle of fabric caught his attention. Dexter had opened the tent flap, ducked to fit under it. Always too bloody tall, Saracen thought nonsensically to himself. Even in wet, grimy combat gear, Dexter resembled a marble statue just a little too much to be entirely safe around. 

“I know this isn’t the welcome you were hoping for,” Dexter offered quietly as a greeting, somehow making Saracen feel worse. 

“Not really. I never thought… doesn’t matter.” 

Sitting down on Anton’s cot, Dexter shrugged. “Yeah, none of us did. I think Deuce tore Sisyphos a new one when it became clear how flimsy the informant’s cover was.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Still, I feel it sort of got lost to ask if you were alright.”

“I’m fine. Got lucky with the island folk.” His voice was uncharacteristically gruff. 

Any other time, Dexter would have smirked and asked just how lucky. Even now, Saracen was pretty sure that thought was going through his mind, although he knew better than to ask. “The girl’s with Lament now, I think. The rocks seem promising enough.” 

He stood and took the two and a half steps it took to cross the space between the cots, crouched awkwardly next to Saracen and put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “We’ll get him back. I… I had the same reaction, initially. Especially when it was both of you gone.” He swallowed. “But they’re working on things. Crow’s mobilising all her resources and Bliss got a hold of that one informant of his as well. We’re pretty sure he’s alive. If he is, we will get him out.”

On impulse, Saracen covered the other man’s hand with his own just briefly, squeezed it. “I know.” 

Dexter smirked. “Do you now?” he asked teasingly as if to cover the hasty removal of his hand.

And Saracen swallowed his conflicting feelings, tapped his nose with a mysterious smile, and lied. “Sure I do.”

***

Serpine strolled leisurely into Vengeous’ spartanically furnished tent, taking in the hard corners and plain materials with a half-disdainful, half-pitying expression. He’d never been here before, and if Vengeous had his way, he would never be here again.

“Well?” he asked irritably, already regretting his decision of calling in Serpine before the man had spoken a word.

“Why, good evening, Baron. How lovely to see your eccentricities are as plentiful as ever.” Looking ever the nobleman, Serpine somehow managed to make standing in front of another man’s desk appear like he owned the place. 

“Did you get anything?”

“Screaming, mostly. Some sobs. A rather enthralling look at my own subconscious.” 

Vengeous raised his left eyebrow. Serpine’s company always inspired him to try out with new expressions. Mostly of contempt. 

“Beyond that?”

Serpine shook his head. “That’s not why I’m here. Mevolent asked me to have him transferred to the main base.” Asked. Even when talking of their leader, Serpine couldn’t bear the idea of being commanded. Vengeous wondered if he would manage deference to the Faceless Ones once they made it through the portal. “As soon as possible.”

Gritting his teeth, Vengeous considered it. Truth be told, he’d been expecting their leader to want a look at the man. “I’ll see by when we can draw up a secure route.”

“Very good.” Serpine stood for a moment, his expression unusually serious. “Soon enough, Baron, we won’t have to worry about any of this. And a good deal of it will be due to your efforts. I wonder how he’ll reward you for that.” And on that ominous note, he turned on his heel and sauntered away.

***

“They’re moving him,” Asa Sisyphos wheezed, out-of-breath both from running across the camp in about twenty seconds flat and his heart beating out of the chest due to Corrival Deuce’s withering glare. On his way in, he’d passed Pleasant and Bespoke looking ready to commit bloody murder.

“When and where?” Meritorious asked, less scathing than Corrival would have been, but still skeptical. 

“To Mevolent’s main base. Don’t know where exactly, but it’s up north, close to Cavan,” he rushed, hoping to get all the information out as fast as possible so he could leave. “They’re doing it the old-fashioned way, the rumour about teleportation faults is holding.” He allowed himself the very briefest moment of pride about that one. 

“And,” Deuce said sharply, “when exactly will this maneuver be executed?” 

“They haven’t decided,” Asa responded, well aware of the limitations that put on the usefulness of his intelligence. “But they’re working on a plan and a route. My source is one of the guards they’re planning on using, so she’ll know at least some hours in advance.”

Crow turned to look at Deuce and Guild probingly. “Tell us honestly. Are hours enough to plan an extraction?”

Deuce answered without hesitation. “We’ll do it.” 

Guild remained silent.

Crow’s expression was softer than usual as she addressed Deuce. “Corrival, I know you care for the man. It’s unlikely we’ll get the opportunity again once he arrives with Mevolent, but to risk lives and resources on a mission doomed to fail would be - “

“It’s not.” A man Asa had never known to speak up in discussions like this had stepped forward. Sagacious Tome. He was a clerk of some description, managing supplies. He looked nervous, hands fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “Time is no issue. My teleporters can get them anywhere in the country within seconds.”

His teleporters? That would be an interesting development if it was true. Any man who’d managed to organise a group as anarchic and eccentric as the teleporters and had them ready to take orders certainly deserved Asa’s attention. 

Crow and Meritorious looked equally surprised. “Are you offering their services, Mr Tome?”

All eyes on him, Tome seemed to simultaneously revel in the attention and want to crawl back to the shabby little logistics desk he normally manned. His voice shook only a little when he responded. “Yes. I’ve managed to get in touch with twenty of our number and they are all on their way to a secure pick-up point. If you’ll allow it, I’ll bring them here from there.”

Crow looked at Meritorious for a moment, seeming to silently confer with him. “Take Scrutinous and Sisyphos with you probe them before bringing them into camp. And two soldiers of your choice for protection.” 

Meritorious nodded, his expression faintly impressed. “Thank you, Mr Tome. Your thoughtfulness was much needed today and it will not be forgotten.”

***

Ravel buried his head in his hands next to the half empty mug of beer. He used to be a lightweight, able to get drunk on two mugs of ale and a positive attitude. He’d never appreciated how much of a blessing that was. Now he was after his fourth mug and felt nothing but a vague drowsiness, which was probably more attributable to the hour than the drink. 

He’d been with Corrival and Skulduggery most of the day, discussing options and risks and being practical. It was a chore, but it kept him busy. He suspected Skulduggery didn’t think there was much purpose to it. The dead man’s cold reminder to consider their options if both Saracen and Hopeless were permanently out of commission had frightened Corrival, but it had terrified Ravel for an entirely different reason. This wasn’t the Skulduggery Hopeless had introduced him to in a Dublin tavern and who they’d worked with as a unit for years after. That man would never have considered writing anyone off as dead. Certainly not Hopeless. But Skulduggery was growing harsher by the day. Ghastly was the only one who still got through to him, most of the time.

The sound of light footsteps on the in the otherwise empty tent roused him. Without a conscious thought going into it, he was on his feet. The woman who had come in was unfamiliar, but her movements were confident. Which didn’t mean much. First lesson most spies learnt was how to move like they owned the place. 

She caught his gaze, raised an eyebrow. “I was directed here for a meal,” she offered by way of explanation. Her accent was faint, but he would have recognised a Brit anywhere. Old habits dying hard and all that. “Am I in the wrong place?”

He relaxed by a fraction. Chances were, she really was just new and that was why he didn’t know her. “Who directed you?”

“Tyren Lament. He works in the armoury.” 

“I know Lament,” he responded shortly, slumping back into his seat on the wooden bench. “You work for him?” That by itself would be surprising. Lament was a nice enough chap if you didn’t talk out of your arse about science magic, but he’d heard the man was a nightmare to work with. A capable nightmare, but a nightmare nonetheless. 

Her features quirked into an odd half smile. “I hope to. For now, I’ve only presented him with some materials to test.”

“You’re the one that pulled Saracen out of the ocean?” he asked, things finally coming together in his mind. Seemed the drink had in fact had some effect if it took that long. 

“One of my father’s men did all the pulling, I’m afraid.” Apparently no longer afraid he’d attack her, she moved toward the sigil-heated pot of stew and ladled some onto an earthenware plate. “I simply returned him to you.”

“And it is much appreciated,” he managed with a ghost of his usual charm. “We rather like Saracen around here. God knows why, but we do.”

She smiled for real this time, lighting up her otherwise rather severe features. “It may help you rarely accompany him on boat rides.”

“That it may,” he conceded, momentarily rather entertained by the one memory he had of Saracen on a ship. How he had survived a journey halfway around Ireland was something of a mystery. 

They fell into a silence after that as she found a spoon and piece of bread to go with the stew, then walked up to his table, standing rather awkwardly. “I realise you were likely alone in here for your own good reasons, and I wouldn’t wish to impose. Do you know if - ?”

He cut her off with a wave. “Don’t be silly. I was only alone so no one would stop me from drinking myself to an early grave, and since that doesn’t seem to be working out any time soon, might as well spend the evening entertained by a lovely lady from foreign lands.”

“I’ll do my best to be entertaining,” she said with a tiny shake of her head as she slipped into the seat opposite him and tried a tiny spoonful of the stew. “This is good,” she noted with entirely too much surprise in her voice.

“Were you expecting us to starve our soldiers?” he queried jokingly. “The food is the main selling point of joining up.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response, digging in with the healthy appetite of someone who’d forgotten they were hungry and all too suddenly remembered. It was amusing in a mundane way. When the plate was all but polished off, she looked up.

“So, Mr Ravel, how used should one get to this camp?”

 

Suspicious again, he eyed her features for any sign of ill intent. “How did you know my name?”

She shrugged. “A boy at the armoury told me about your unit. Rather worships you, I think. You were one of those with identifiable characteristics.” Motioning vaguely in the direction of his eyes, she crossed her legs. 

That was plausible enough. “Why the question about the camp?”

“Seems like a last-ditch attempt is all,” she commented dispassionately. Getting up to put away her bowl and spoon, she added: “The location is bad and none of the construction seems permanent. And of course, there’s the reason for your drowning yourself in beer. Your lost companion. I understand he was rather central for defensive purposes.”

He gritted his teeth and looked behind her shoulder as he answered. The tent, at least, couldn’t tell him he was being naive. “We’ll get him back.”

“I don’t doubt that,” she agreed quietly. “But until you do, this is a weak location. If what your friend has told us about the army facing you is true, they’ll use the moment to drive you into the sea.”

“If they know where we are,” he countered, predicting her answer. “Hopeless will never reveal it.”

“You have a high opinion of him.” She didn’t question his faith in his friend and he was grateful for it. That might have been too much. Eyes turning toward the mug of beer he had gone back to nursing, she raised both eyebrows. “If you’re trying to drown your sorrows, Mr Ravel, that drink is a poor choice.”

“So I’m discovering,” he conceded with a despondent frown. “I find myself utterly and depressingly sober.”

“I can get you something stronger if you promise not to be getting yourself into trouble and blaming me for it after,” she offered, head tilted and her face looking like it wasn’t entirely sure this was a good idea.

“That would be kind, miss.” He rose from his seat and offered her his arm. “I’ll walk with you to your tent, if you’ll allow.”

“How very gallant of you, Mr Ravel,” she said, mirroring his movement and placing her hand lightly in the crook of his elbow. 

They walked together in silence. There were only so many places her tent could be and while the camp was warded against rain as as well as intruders, it was rather desolate in the darkness. Shabbily constructed tents on both sides of a path that had once been grass, but had now been walked over so many times the green was slowly but surely dying off. Most tents were dark, though he saw light in Meritorious’ as well as the infirmary. They were understaffed as always, especially as regarded skilled healers. Once they got Hopeless back, he’d ask Corrival for leave to go out for recruitment. He was good at it after all, and if they didn’t add some to their number, the Professor would surely collapse. 

A light tug on his sleeve told him they had arrived. Briefly touching her finger to her lips, she ducked into the tent. Ravel stood outside, hearing the slight squeak of a key in a lock, then the movement of hinges. She emerged almost immediately, carrying a flask and two small cups. 

“It turns out I needn’t have bothered with the silence,” she muttered, half to herself. “The other girl in the tent assists the Professor. Looks like she’s having a late night.”

“They usually do,” he confirmed. “Our healers are stretched rather thin.” 

With a nod, she held up the drink. “Where to?”

He considered it. “The sparring ring should be empty at this hour. There’s benches enough.” 

His companion shrugged and motioned for him to lead the way. Complying, he tried to remember what little Saracen and Dexter had said about her when they arrived. No taken name and some nautical discipline of magic. Accompanied by a teleporter who had returned to the island where they’d kept Saracen to report back to their leader. Not too much.

“Will you be taking a name for your time here, miss?” he enquired politely as they entered the clearing he had suggested. 

“I imagine so. Your friend considerately mentioned it on our journey, and while most of the men in our crews have done so for their own reasons when they joined up, I never had the need.” 

They sat and she uncorked the bottle, pouring them both generous portions. In the faint light of the torches, it shone in a mesmerising copper tone. Still, he was a sensible man, and so waited for her to be the first to drink. She met his eyes, held his gaze for a moment, and slowly raised her cup to her lips to take a sip.

“I’m not trying to poison you, Mr Ravel,” she murmured, setting the cup down on the bench beside her. “And if I was, I’m sure I’d find more competent ways.”

 

“Just being diligent,” he responded quietly, raising his own cup to his lips and tasting the liquid inside. It burnt his tongue and throat for a moment before unfolding into a firework of spices and sweetness. 

Without breaking eye contact, she observed his reaction with a wry smile. “Do you like it?”

“It’s not bad,” he conceded, unable to help the smile making its way onto his face. 

“I’m glad. You looked rather miserable with that beer.” She took another sip, closing her eyes to savour the taste. “Well, speaking of taken names. Will you indulge me and tell me how you came up with yours?” 

That was not an easy question. Most people considered it too private to ask, but he supposed that, being new, she could be excused. He bought time, drank, fingers tapping a half-forgotten tune on the uneven wood of the bench. 

“I don’t entirely remember.” Feeling the alcohol go to his head, he tried to remember his thought processes at the time. “Erskine was a name in one of my mother’s stories.” That, he remembered all too well, down to the sound of the crackling fire and the feel of the pillow he would hug when she got to the frightening parts. “Some heroic knight rescuing damsels and attaching himself to just causes left and right. Scottish, I think.”

“Probably Scottish,” she confirmed. “There’s a town there by that name. It’s by the sea.” Her voice had turned a little bit melancholy on that last sentence. “And Ravel?”

“It’ll sound terribly silly,” he warned her, “but I had this idea in my head about being a man of mystery and mysteries in stories would be unravelled - ”

“So you wanted to be the opposite of that?” 

“I did say it sounded silly,” he grumbled in mock affront before breaking into a chuckle and emptying his cup. “I had barely seen fourteen winters and felt terribly clever coming up with it, so I suppose there is that to consider in my defence.” 

“It suits you,” she said, still trying to hide her grin before giving up on it. “Heroic man of mystery, no? Is that not what you Dead Men are?”

“I suppose we are,” he confirmed, “unless, of course, you meet us in person on an off night.” 

“Assuming this might be called an off night, I assure you, you are still sufficiently impressive," she said, face entirely too innocent in her gentle flattery. "Most men would have trouble with their balance at this point." She pointed at his empty cup.

“You have not yet seen me attempt to walk, Miss,” he cautioned her and unwisely attempted the more modest task of getting up from the bench. Dropping back down in an unceremonious mess, he rubbed his temples in the faint hope of shaking the light-headedness. Unsuccessful, he looked at her in exaggerated despair. “I am afraid, miss, you and your devil’s drink have done what no man nor beast could. You have robbed me of the use of my limbs. I hope you are pleased.”

Not bothering to hide her amusement, she stood - effortlessly, he noted - and gripped his wrist securely. “Come, Mr Ravel, I’ll get you to your tent.” 

He made another attempt, more successful this time. Swaying a little, he managed to stay on his feet. The world around him - grass and tents and chilly night air remained pleasantly fuzzy, but the hand on his arm kept him focused on slowly putting one foot in front of the other. He even remembered in a spell of genius that she would have no idea where he slept and nudged her in the right direction at the relevant corners. When they reached the tent, he turned, swaying rather dangerously until she steadied him, holding him firmly by the upper arms until he looked like he could stand on his own. 

“How are you still this sober?” he asked, words impressively unslurred. “You’re - much smaller than me and had just as much of the stuff.”

“Aye, but less beer beforehand. If you keep up your drinking habits, you’ll learn beer does get you drunk, it just takes - time. The liquor helped, but nothing is quite that strong that fast.”

Somewhere in his blurry brain, that made sense enough not to be questioned. He reached for the fabric covering the entrance to the tent - the tent he should be sharing with Hopeless. It would be empty tonight. While Saracen had been gone, Anton had silently moved into it, understanding Ravel’s desperate fear of being alone without them ever so much as exchanging a word about it. That realisation - that his tent would be his alone tonight, was what had first driven him to what the soldiers had sarcastically termed the dining hall. Almost of its own accord, his hand clasped her arm. She looked up at him.

“Are you alright, Mr Ravel?” she asked with unmistakable concern, but he felt the tension in her arm and heard the slight edge of wariness in her voice. His hand fell away. He didn’t want to be the sort of man to impose on a perfectly kind stranger just because he had to brave sleeping alone. If that was such a problem, he should have gone about charming one of the girls who’d been making eyes at him at the sparring circle for months. 

He swallowed his weakness and nodded. “Quite alright, miss. Thank you, for your company.”

Her face softened for a moment and she brought her free hand up to briefly squeeze his shoulder. “Take good care of yourself.” She gave a him a shaky sort of smile before stepping away. “Good night.”

***

Ghastly liked sharing a tent with Dexter most nights. The other man was calm, considerate, rose just as early as he did in the mornings and was typically up for a spar. He sometimes thought that no matter when or where he was born, Dexter would have found a way to be in the army for at least some of his life. It was in his blood. 

Another reason he liked sharing a tent with him was that he was a quiet sleeper, so it was blatantly obvious there was something off when he turned for the umpteenth time and huffed in frustration. 

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, pro forma. He knew the answer. 

“No,” Dexter sighed, kicking his blanket away. The sun was beginning to rise over the horizon, casting a faint glow into the tent that was just enough to make out shapes. 

“How’s Saracen doing?”

Dexter groaned and pulled the pillow over his head. “Saracen’s being Saracen.”

“Still with the - ?” He wasn’t sure what to call the two men’s… issue. 

“That too.” His voice was muffled by the pillow. “He’s being grumpy and doing that mysterious shtick of his and… I don’t bloody know. I really wish things would go back to normal.”

“Maybe they will. When we get Hopeless back.” It wasn’t that Ghastly actually believed that. But somehow, Skulduggery’s willingness to push them forward with little white lies had rubbed off onto him. They needed Dexter sharp, not distracted by concerns over his relationship with his best friend. 

“What’s that plan looking like?” the other man asked, apparently having given up on the prospect of sleeping. 

Ghastly sat, moving to a cross-legged position facing Dexter. Out of all the Dead Men’s, theirs was probably the tidiest tent. Cots, bags, and two small, square chests, rifles hung on hooks attached to the poles holding the tent up. He was pretty sure Dexter also kept a dagger under his pillow. He couldn’t remember a time before it, other than his very earliest childhood. 

“Deuce wants to talk over some option for attacking the transport in the morning.” He didn’t mention the heated discussion he’d had with Skulduggery outside the general’s tent when they’d been sent to walk it off. The one where Skulduggery had pointed out that given the low likelihood of success, they might want to reconsider expending resources on this. He’d barely recognised the man he’d grown up with then, describing dispassionately the likelihood they had lost a man Skulduggery had been friends with for nearly a century.

“What are your thoughts on it? You knew Deuce won’t send us if we don’t all agree, and Skulduggery will vote with you no matter what.” 

“Is that what you lot think?”

“It’s been true for as long as I’ve known you two,” Dexter said with a shrug. “Pleasant and Bespoke, the unbreakable bond.” He sounded a little bit jealous, not meeting Ghastly’s eyes as he stared blankly up at the tent ceiling.

“Wouldn’t say it’s all that. We just know each other well. Know how to talk each other down, that sort of thing.” He sighed. Truth was, it had been like that. Now, ever since the euphoria of seeing his closest friend returned from oblivion, he felt Skulduggery slipping away from him more and more every day. He realised also that to Dexter, who had never seen them together while Skulduggery was alive, their bond must still seem special. “But in any case. It’s our only shot to get Hopeless back. We need him. He’s an asset to our side in general and the Dead Men in particular. With the teleporters involved, we have a surprise up our sleeve.” 

He’d rattled all this off earlier. Thankfully, Dexter was easier to convince than Skulduggery. 

“Sounds fair. I’d like a practice round for the teleporting. Just to see if there’s any disorientation or the like. Don’t want to be surprised by that when we move out.”

Ghastly nodded. “Try to get some sleep, Vex. You’ll need it.”

Dexter grunted non-committally and turned to lay on his side, facing away from Ghastly. He knew well that neither of them would catch a lot of sleep that night.


	5. The Attack

***

Two weeks later (early May 1741)

***

“They’re moving him in six days,” Asa wheezed. He did entirely too much running for a man of his age and figure. 

Meritorious and Deuce looked up with interest, Guild remaining (for once) entirely in the background. The three men were gathered around a large round table that almost filled the entirety of the command tent. On it lay the same map Asa had seen hundreds of times, now almost entirely in the grey pebbles they used to signify territory controlled by Mevolent. The location of their camp as well as some more spots out in the countryside where all that remained. Asa knew that, he was the one in charge of keeping the map updated, but it was daunting still to see it so clearly laid out in front of him.

“What route?” Deuce’s tone was clipped, but Asa could forgive that. It had been his slip-up after all. Never mind that the information had been no more or less reliable than almost anything that made it his way. It was a war and informants were by nature unreliable. They’d simply gotten unlucky this time, compared to all the other times when Asa’s judgement had been correct and gotten them valuable information. But Deuce didn’t concern himself with these things. He was a general, straightforward and blunt. Asa respected that, in his own way. He had no intention whatsoever of throwing himself onto any battlefields, and he was quite happy to have people like Deuce doing that for him.

“They have him near Corcaigh at the moment,” he moved to explain, pointing out places on the map as he went, “and they plan to stay away from big mortal congregations on their journey. The plan seems to be to move cross-country in a small group. Change of the guard companies near Ros Cré is the closest I can get to pinning down a location. They’re hoping to avoid an attack by having much of the route decided on the spot so we cannot use sensitives or spies.”

“It seems like a successful strategy,” Guild remarked drily. “The only opportunity we have is the one where they’ll be there in double strength for the guard change. And I imagine they’ll be expecting that, too.”

“Thank you, Asa. We’ll call you back in if we need your input.” Meritorious nodded to him.  
Dismissed. Just like that, dismissed from the inner circle. Asa gritted his teeth. He’d run himself ragged for this, taken serious risks. He’d personally ventured into enemy territory, met his informant in a tavern. A mortal tavern. And now even Deuce, who’d normally have his back against Guild’s taunts, was ignoring his contribution to getting his soldier back. It all tasted rather bitter.

He passed Morwenna Crow on his way from the tent and turned his face away so she wouldn’t see his gritted teeth. Once he made it to the edge of the camp, having steadfastly avoided eye contact with everyone he knew, he dropped to sit on the grass. It hadn’t rained in days, but somehow, the ground remained damp. Asa pulled his knees up to his chest. Dirt had made its way under his fingernails for what had to be the first time in half a century. 

“What’s troubling you, Mr Sisyphos?”

Looking up, he saw a tall man standing a few paces away. He seemed familiar, broad frame, exuding the kind of utterly calm confidence you rarely saw around the war camp of the losing side. Then he saw the bright blue eyes and recognised him. The woman’s brother, who’d accompanied her and Rue on their journey. He’d carried himself the same way then, resting deep within himself. Asa wished he had that, were the kind of man that crowds would part for simply upon looking at his face. Crow was like that, and Meritorious too at times. Shudder was simply because he truly was a man to be feared and everyone knew it. Asa was nothing like it. Almost comically nondescript, he knew very well he would always be part of the crowd scrambling out of other people’s way. 

“What brings you here, Mr Nankarrek?” he asked instead of answering the question. He’d liked the man at their first meeting, found him impressive enough, but that didn’t mean he was about to blubber about his work for the army. Aside from being treasonous, it would also have been very undignified.

The other man raised an eyebrow and moved to sit next to Asa, cross-legged and with perfect posture, before answering. “Concern for Caris and her mission with your people. She asked me to meet her today and has not appeared at the beach.” 

“I trust that she does not plan to relay sensitive information to you out in public,” Asa asked, finding himself caring more pro forma than out of real concern. 

“From what we heard,” Mr Nankarrek responded, his face expressionless, “the most sensitive information about your little army is its location. I have known that for weeks and done nothing nefarious with the knowledge.” 

It should have been insulting, the little army comment and how they had no real secrets worth keeping except for their hiding places, but the man’s dispassionate way of relating them, and the unfortunate reality they were true facts made Asa not care about that as much as perhaps he should have.

“We have other defences than hiding away,” he defended half-heartedly. 

“I’m sure you do, but dear Caris is unlikely to know too much about all that,” Mr Nankarrek acknowledged with a shrug. “I’d just like to see her safe and healthy is all.”

“‘karrek!” a voice shouted from the campsite, just behind the wards. They turned almost simultaneously to see the man’s sister walking toward them at a brisk pace, carrying a satchel. “I am terribly sorry for being so delayed, Mr Lament was quizzing me on natural philosophy and he never keeps track of time.” She seemed to just then notice Asa, curtsying slightly in his direction. “Mr Sisyphos, it is so kind of you to keep Nankarrek company. I’m rather afraid I have to steal him away so we don’t bore you as he tells me all about how things are looking at home.”

Her wide eyes and enthusiasm didn’t quite hide that she was eager to speak with her brother unsupervised, but Asa could hardly blame her. Having been around strangers for weeks would make anyone desperate for familiar company. Besides, the other man was right. There were few secrets about the camp beyond its location, and fewer still that she was in any way likely to have discovered during her time here.

“You are fully within your rights, Miss. I’ll have someone sent out to get you back behind the wards in an hour?” he offered with a smile as he rose awkwardly from the ground and brushed grass from his robes. 

“Oh, that would be so kind!” 

Asa couldn’t help but smile at her beaming expression. As she pulled her brother to his feet, she seemed so much less cautious and restrained in her whole manner she might as well have been a different person to the quiet woman keeping her head down to avoid the slightest sign of trouble at the camp. He walked back to the camp shaking his head. It was silly to be so affected. Deuce would come around and all would be well, and even if he didn’t, there were plenty of people who did respect and listen to him. He just had to play it right. People would remember his contribution. They simply had to.

***

“Strange fellow,” Nankarrek commented as they made their way down to the beach. The clouds were breaking up to let lonely rays of sun pass through.

Caris chuckled. “Very. Did he believe you?”

He nodded. “If I had to guess, I would say yes. He could be trying to catch us in a lie though. I still think one of them saw me leave after our talk five days ago.”

“Did you find anything useful though?”

Nankarrek sighed. He had, and he wasn’t sure he would like what she would want to do with the information. “There’s a force three hours away. About two hundred strong, but they look to be gathering more by the day.” Right hand resting on the hilt of the dagger on his belt, he continued. “The camp is weakly enforced. I can’t tell you much about the wards, but I wouldn’t want to bet my own skin on their working out.”

“Neither, although I wager I’ll have to if we want to succeed.” Her gaze was directed straight ahead, face set in a steely sort of determination. 

Nankarrek knew her well enough to know that was a cover. He grasped her shoulder, forcing her to look him in the eye. “Caris, are you sure about this?” 

He didn’t say everything that was on his mind. That this was pointless risk. That if the plan failed, they’d have the blood of Saracen Rue and his companions on their own hands. That it was entirely possible for her to get caught up in the cross-fire. Because she knew that, and she knew he knew it too. 

Caris looked up at him with those grey-green eyes that sometimes made people question if she really was her father’s daughter. Nankarrek had no such doubts, having once seen a painting of her mother the Admiral had commissioned in the heyday of their romance. 

“I’m sure.”

***

With a grunt of effort, Dexter twisted slightly to use his block to unbalance his opponent, then threw a good portion of his strength into the follow up shove to his opponent’s torso. The ginger stumbled, caught his balance. Good. He didn’t relent in his attack, sending a flurry of fists the other man’s way, landing more of them than he was used to from training with the other Dead Men. The kid was light on his feet, dancing away from attacks more than blocking them, but the strain was beginning to show on his face, pearls of sweat gathering on his forehead amid the dust from the ground. 

Dexter raised his hands, signalling the fight was over. Enough was enough. He’d knocked the recruit into the dust plenty of times today, no need to crush his confidence beyond that. 

“Really, Mr Vex, I can take it.” Wide green eyes beamed up at him from a face covered in freckles and scars. “They want me in the guard, and I need to be prepared.”

“I like your enthusiasm, lad,” Dexter said with a laugh, “but there are limits to how much you can take away from being knocked about in the dust without a break to collect your thoughts.”

He liked training the younger soldiers. They were less grim and cynical than the unit he had started out with. Even the Dead Men, who never really stopped quipping, had a jaded edge to them. He knew he had it too, and he hated it.

“Come on, join me for a pint of ale and we’ll discuss some things for you to improve on,” he offered and chuckled a little at seeing the young man’s brilliant smile in response to it. 

They wiped the dust from their faces and hands before heading off to the dining hall. Dexter nodded to some people he knew on the way. It wasn’t a particularly cheerful sort of atmosphere, but less muted than it had been in the weeks before. He couldn’t quite shake the thought that it was because people were just getting used to their recent losses. The loss of Hopeless. He didn’t want to think that. 

It was growing sunnier out and even the darkest moods grew a little brighter under blue skies, so he chose to attribute the mood to that and not think about the other option. They arrived at the largest tent of the camp, whose flaps had largely been drawn to allow the light and fresh air in as much as possible. Dexter went to get them both a pint while the other man went to find them a table. It was pretty empty at this hour, early afternoon, almost no one having meals. 

Once settled, Dexter took a long drink of ale before taking another look at his companion. The man was unusually graceful in all his movements, yet his accent and mannerisms marked him down as entirely common folk. 

“So, Larrikin. First or last name?”

“Both,” came the cheerful reply. “I couldn’t think of anything that would fit better so I just left it at that.”

If this man - Larrikin - had seemed just a little bit less like a peasant from the furthest corners of Donegal, Dexter would have guessed it was tradition. There were a number of old sorcerer families that didn’t believe in first and last names, believing them to be a mortal corruption of perfectly good tradition. Dexter’s own father had chosen his name on that premise, once upon a time, and he still suspected Hopeless had done the same, given how old he was.

“So, Mr Larrikin, what’s your story? Why are you here?” 

“Nothing very special, I’m afraid,” Larrikin responded, a little bit of self consciousness appearing on his face. “I learned from an old healer in my village. He was very kind always, and I found out later he would check all the children in the village for signs of being magical. He’d been there for generations. When he found out I had aptitude, he taught me some simple things. Cures and secrecy mostly, really. I stayed with my family until Mevolent’s troops came to the village. They’d heard of Ailbe, didn’t like what he was doing.” 

“Teaching mortals?” That made sense. Mevolent didn’t seem to care about mortals one way or the other, but plenty of the people attached to his cause took a traditionalist view on the practice of magic.

“Yeah.” Larrikin’s voice was a little sad now and his eyes had lost their enthusiastic glow. Somehow his face seemed more natural that way. “They took him and most of the others away. I assume they’re probably dead, but never really found out. I hid.” He bit his lip and plastered a grin onto his face. “Felt bad about that, so I kept moving around until I found one of your people.”

“Family?” Dexter prodded further.

The grin became a little more real as Larrikin answered, words spilling from his mouth quickly, underlined by sweeping gestures that miraculously didn’t catch his mug of ale in their path. “Two sisters and my ma. Ma’s getting old, but lively enough. Una told me she might live to be be a great-grandmother.” Again, Larrikin bit his lip. His face was extremely expressive; with delicate features whose every movement was accentuated by freckled skin and the brilliant green of his eyes.

His story was, in many ways regular enough. It told Dexter what he needed to know. Larrikin was, given that his sisters would soon become grandmothers, old enough to be making good choices despite his youthful manner. And his reason for joining the fight was one that would be hard to corrupt.

“I did tell you it wasn’t terribly interesting, Mr Vex,” Larrikin said quietly upon not receiving a response, his face a little unsure. 

“Oh nonsense,” Dexter moved to reassure him and finished his ale. “I was just lost in thought.” He took a deep breath. “Now, for pointers on your technique. You rely on being able to move quicker than your opponent, is that right?” A nod. “The most dangerous thing to happen to you with that, aside from magic, is someone who’s seen you before and knows your reactions. You have patterns in your movement. Find them, so you’re less vulnerable to feints. Other than that, you’ll need to work on your balance.” 

“How do I do that?” Larrikin asked, focused and serious for once. 

“I’ll ask Ghastly to give you some pointers on that, he knows more about it than I.” Although that was technically true, it also served the useful purpose of getting Ghastly to take a look at the lad. Dexter had a feeling he could be useful. “Be at the sparring grounds again in the morning and he’ll help you out. Until then, amuse yourself. Live a little.” He smiled and stood, briefly squeezing the younger man’s shoulder. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Larrikin.”

***

Four days later (end of May 1741)

***

“We don’t know how strong the force involved will be, but we have to estimate it’ll be tough. Even if they don’t know about Sisyphos’ spy, they would have to be expecting a fight.” Deuce looked at each of them in turn, meeting their eyes briefly. They had discussed this before, and probably would again as they got into position the following day. “I want to bring up one additional point that Skulduggery alerted me to yesterday.”

Ghastly’s eyes immediately went to look at his friend. Skulduggery stood impassively, eye sockets pointed straight at Corrival. 

“We need to prioritise no one else getting captured. Keep this in mind. If you see a capture, intervene as needed.” With a curt nod, the general left them to their training. 

“What did he mean, Pleasant?” Anton asked, his voice quiet and controlled.

“The obvious,” Skulduggery responded, apparently unperturbed by the incredulous faces of his friends around him. “Capture is not something we can risk anymore. Not now that there’s a residual risk we’ve already been weakened by Hopeless.”

Erskine and Dexter both moved to speak, but Anton’s swift movements toward Skulduggery kept them silent. Tall and grim, Anton stood inches away from the skeleton soldier and looked straight at him. “What exactly do you suggest we do if we see a capture, Pleasant?”

“Kill your comrade rather than allow them to be taken by the enemy, is what is typically meant by ‘we can’t afford a capture’, Anton.” Skulduggery didn’t flinch or step away, but simply met Anton’s stony stare as well as he could without actual eyes. 

Silence seemed to have captured the tent like heavy chains for the seconds during which no one moved. Finally, Anton tilted his head and turned away to walk, silently, out of the tent. 

“I’ll check on him,” Saracen offered immediately. Ghastly thought he looked rather too relieved to have an excuse to leave. 

One by one, they filed out of the tent until only Skulduggery and Ghastly were left. After one long look at Skulduggery, standing immobile on the dusty ground of his tent, Ghastly too walked out. 

***

“He has a point, you know,” Saracen said, carefully. For once, he stayed at Anton’s preferred level of personal space, namely, on the other side of the tent. 

Anton’s face was buried in his hands on his lap. He didn’t want to look at his friend. Especially because it was Saracen, who always knew just a little too much about what was going on inside his head. Sometimes he suspected the man’s secret power was mindreading. 

“I know,” he mumbled, still not looking up. He knew perfectly well that Pleasant had a point. 

“Then what’s got you so riled up about it?” Saracen prodded, deceptively casual. 

Finally, Anton looked up, his hands curling into tight fists. Honesty. He was proud, in so far as he was proud of anything, of being an honest man. “I’d do it. If Deuce ordered it, or Pleasant in the field, I’d do it.” He kept his face blank although he suspected his tension was all too visible. “I don’t want that. I - liked knowing it wouldn’t come to that.” 

There it was. All out in the open for Saracen to acknowledge he was cold - cruel - and make a hurried quip to move on past. Anton had seen this happen before. It didn’t take much to make people fear gist users. For most people, it didn’t really take more than the gist. Being willing to kill your closest friends in battle would probably do it for Saracen. He gritted his teeth and looked away.

“Much as I hate to admit it,” Saracen said, his tone uncharacteristically grave, “I’m glad to know that.”

“What?”

“That I wouldn’t fall into the hands of Mevolent’s folk while you had anything to say about it.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Saracen get up and walk over to his cot, sitting next to him at what was still - for Saracen at least - a respectful distance. “I don’t want to be tortured. And I don’t think any of the others, except Skulduggery, has the guts to see it through.” He sounded almost impressed as he slowly, deliberately reached out to pull Anton’s hand from its clenched grip the rough fabric of his blanket and squeezed it once before letting go. “It’s not a bad thing to be disciplined or - or single-minded. It’s not. I know you’re a good man, and so do the others. We’re not about to run screaming from you because of it.” 

It was uncanny how Rue sometimes managed to read him like an open book. Anton relented and met his oldest friend’s eyes. 

“Thank you, Saracen,” he offered awkwardly and nodded to himself. 

In response, Saracen smiled his usual cheeky smile. “Always, my terrifying friend. Now, let’s gather the others and make sure we don’t have to test that commitment tomorrow, shall we?”

***

A couple of things happened at once. 

Dexter saw Saracen and Anton emerging from their shared tent, both looking unusually thoughtful, while a few tents away, Ghastly was grabbing Ravel’s arm, attempting to talk some sense into him with limited success. 

And from the edge of the camp came the tell-tale screams and sounds of scuffles that could only mean one thing. They were under attack.

***

It all happened very fast, Meritorious thought to himself. One moment they were discussing reaching out to the Prussians, and the next Morwenna had shadow-walked him and Tome to the sparring grounds at the centre of the camp. She always was the best fighter among them. 

“What’s going on?” he said, then repeated it in a shout to get someone to answer him. In all the running around, he saw Guild. Guild was a good candidate for answering it. “Thurid. What’s happening?”

Impatience flashed across the soldier’s face before he composed himself and stood to answer the question. “We’re surrounded. The wards are holding, for now, but we don’t know how long. Deuce is trying to organise forces to shoot us a route out of here, but it’s looking bad.”

“Maybe Tome can get us - “

He found himself interrupted brusquely by Morwenna. “No. Our people need leadership.”

She was correct. Meritorious gathered his wits, focused on trying to make sense of the chaos. He always found battles overwhelming, too loud, everyone moving too fast, and no one understanding quite what was going on.

Running and yet barely out of breath, Dexter Vex appeared in his line of sight. He was bleeding from a cut on his cheek, but it didn’t look serious. Meritorious liked Vex, but more importantly, the man had a good head on his shoulders.

“Sir, we need to get people out,” Vex half-yelled in his face to get through given the clanging of weapons and the shouts. “We can only keep them away from here for so long, and with the teleporters, we can get you, Mistress Crow, the injured, maybe Lament and Grouse. That’s a start and we can regroup from there.” 

“We can’t take that many,” Tome interjected, his face in what looked like an expression of abject panic. “We have nowhere to go.”

“Look, sir, I can’t tell you what to do. We’ll try and hold the line, but I don’t know how long… “ Vex trailed off and jogged back toward the edge of the camp.

***

This was their chance and Caris really wished she had taken Nankarrek’s advice about the peaceful option as she ducked under flying furniture that - yes, it was on fire. Amazing. She’d thought she was done with battles, but no. Cursing in a stream of languages that barely made sense to her let alone any outside source, she kept her head down as she ran, ducking behind cover and keeping an eye on Nankarrek as he made his way along a parallel route. His gun was in its holster, but he’d picked up a wooden staff, not that he really knew enough about who was on which side to do an awful lot with it. They had more important things to do in any case. 

“Behind you, girl,” yelled an unfamiliar voice and she whirled just in time to see a - creature - roaring at her. It looked altogether too much like a stitched up corpse and even as she gripped her dagger she suppressed a gag at the stench. Then, a stream of bright line tore through its torso. Her eyes followed it to its source and saw one of the other Dead Men - one of those who’d picked them up at the beach. Dexter Vex. He was already running toward the thick of the skirmish.

Together with Nankarrek, she continued, faster now they’d made it out of the more contested area. At the sparring circle, they found the leadership, looking a little forlorn as they discussed something, too quiet for Caris to hear from the distance. 

She gritted her teeth and continued toward them. This was what they’d been waiting for.

“ - they’re overrunning us. You know that, Morwenna,” Meritorious said urgently. 

“Sir. Madam.” Caris swallowed as they turned to look at her, impatience written clear as day on their faces. She pulled herself up to her full height and lifted her chin, taking a deep breath. Not a lot of time to explain before they would cut her off. Trying desperately not to stumble over the words of the speech she had rehearsed so many times, she began: “Nankarrek here was coming to see me with news. My father’s ships are just off the coast. We can evacuate the camp there and afterwards, take you where you wish to go.”

“You’re that girl with the island rock, is that right?” Crow asked, and although her manner was as forbidding as ever, she seemed interested and that was all that mattered. 

“Yes, madam. If you get onto the ships, you will be able to evade them.” She clenched her right hand tightly around the hilt of her dagger as she met Crow’s eyes with what she hoped was a look of calm confidence. Now or never. “Madam, they’re taking the camp. Nankarrek is a teleporter, just like Mr Tome. He can get your people to the ships.”

For a few very long moments, time appeared to stand still. Then, Crow turned to Meritorious and spoke, quietly and very seriously. “Go with the man. Take Tome.”

“Morwenna, you just said our people need a leader.”

She looked at him and gave an odd, half-hearted attempt at a smile. “I’ll lead them here. But, if this camp falls and we manage to get some out. They’ll need a leader too. This - ship. It’s the other basket, Eachan.”

Caris expected the leader of their entire side in this war to need more convincing, but he simply nodded and reached for Tome’s arm, looking expectantly at Nankarrek, who in turn was looking at Caris herself. 

She forced herself to smile with a lot more confidence than she felt. “Go. I’ll gather the next group.”

As they vanished, Crow turned to Caris with an odd expression, a mix of gratitude and curiosity. She didn’t seem to want to dwell on it though as she curtly said: “Begin with the wounded, then Lament and those who cannot fight. I’ll join the defense.”

“Yes, madam,” Caris confirmed and got to work as Crow seemed to disappear into the shadows.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome aboard!
> 
> Most of this story is written out, so expect semi-regular updates. Sixteen chapters planned. Please, please, please comment on my Dead Men characterisation because I haven't written fanfic in ages and it might be off, so I would love to fix it.


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